This is Africa, 1943. War spits out its violence overhead and the sandy graveyard swallows it up. Her name is King Nine, B-25, medium bomber, Twelfth Air Force. On a hot, still morning she took off from Tunisia to bomb the southern tip of Italy. An errant piece of flak tore a hole in a wing tank and, like a wounded bird, this is where she landed, not to return on this day, or any other day.

And I didn't crash my pista. A girl crashed into me and my pista was the victim. Oh well. It's just a possession. In any case, wasn't trolling. Was making a joke. No one got bent out of shape until AFTER I recieved my little badge... I mean infraction.

yeah that just sounded like an ill informed hipster (not to throw around that word lightly) looking for advice. Plus a lot of roadies ride fixed, whether because they just like bikes, train on them, or use them to ride like everyother fixed rider. but in the spirit of fun...